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Plårp and I did our best

Potted on April 10, 2011.

Plårp and I did our best Julia Drusilla and Caligula impression today—better than we ever had before. But that has little to do with everything else that Fate inflicted upon me this week, so I shan’t mention it further.

On Monday this week (specifically, the Monday six days ago, not the Monday tomorrow—which isn’t part of this week, but of next), I hopped, skipped, and pweed my way to work at Norb McBorbley’s Hormel spam-canning plant. Thoughts of taking home 64,500 cans of spam whirled around rapidly inside my wrinkled little brain as I galloped down to the plant’s mail room in order to pick up my case of 72 eigenslaves eigenmailed straight from Eigentoria. I quickly put the little buggers—and the squirrel assistant that came with each eigenslave at no additional charge—to work slaving away on the factory floor, then rushed to Norb’s office in order to inform him that I had succeeded in the grumbumptuous task he had assigned me.

Norb was overjoyed, impressed, awed, and various other words I won’t try to think of right now, mainly because I have a gaffe of pincer monkeys trying to chew my irises out. (More on that later.) And so, at the end of the workday, all 64,500 cans of spam Norb had offered me were duly loaded into the pickup truck that I had pilfered from my new next-door neighbor, and I drove them home, intent on consuming at least 2,026.3278 cans tonight.

[As a side note, let this be a lesson to you nuttering little squirrels that have been dogging my every step for the past several weeks: “Aaaaaah whacka-whacka, weeple wopple!” Got it? Good.]

Immediately upon arriving home, I opened the first can. I scooped out a hearty dollop of the gelatinous, pink confection with a spork I had bought for just this purpose. Yappie looked on with anticipation. I took a bite. My face turned green. My eyes crossed and yiffed each other. I yerked.

“This stuff tastes like shit!”

The next day, putting the disastrous spam-eating experience of the day prior out of my mind forever, I instead decided to take a magical journey across the sea on the back of another really, really big fish. This really, really big fish lacked both wings and wheels—exactly like my last fishy friend—but he made up for it by having rainbows puffing out his ears, nose, and throat. Disregarding the parsimonious blibble-babble of gnomes nattering incessantly beneath my cummerbund and wainscoting, my really, really big fish took me on a journey across the entire geoid, from Afghanistan to Japan to Iceland to the trailer park where Britney Spears grew up. And we were even able to arrive home in time for dinner: The biggest fish fillet I had ever eaten in my life.

By 14 d’clock on Wednesday, my coprophagous hallucinations had subsided, so I attempted to return to my “job” at the Hormel spam-canning plant. However, it was not to be, for “Lobster is now here!” said the sign at the Dunkin’ Donuts that I drove by on my way. I slammed on my brakes, nearly causing a six-car (and two-moose) pileup behind me. Cars honked their horns in anger, frustration, and celebration. “Excellent!” I squeaked, squirrel-like. “I’ve always wanted to meet a real, live lobster!”

Alas, this was not to be either, even after I had planted myself squarely in the middle of the coffee shop’s dining area, stuffed napkins in my ears, crossed my eyes, and refused to leave until the manager introduced me to the lobster whom they claimed was now here. Holding my breath until I turned blue turned out to be a suboptimal ultimatum; it only resulted in me being hauled away by the authorities after I passed out. After the squirreldoctors had finished pumping fresh oxygen directly into my erythrocytes, the hospital’s guardsquirrels had at me with fist and bluncheon. Fortunately, I didn’t die at the hands of the chittering little bastards—but I did suffer a bent cornea again. And the blunch the cafeteria had to offer was actually quite good, so that more than made up for it.

On Thursday, snow fleas starting pouring out of the soil and infiltrated every pore of my body: An ominous sign if there ever was one. Not since AppleWorks had battled to the death with Microsoft Word had I been so flabbergasted in my life. (And not since Britney Spears had danced naked with Lucy Lawless had those ghasts lurking under my bed frame stopped flabbling.) As I already had ample experience dealing with these knaves, I knew exactly what to do: Back to the Spend-O-Mart I went, whereupon I duly purchased an entire crate of candles made from horse semen. It worked: My pores were quickly evacuated of every last snow flea, and I declared victory once again.

Later that evening, somebody threw pancakes all over the ground! So I couldn’t go! And remembering that hot lesbian scene with Anastasia Dualla and Sharon Valerii that I’d seen on TV years ago made me not want to go, but that’s another story. There’s also a story about how Fuzzy Wuzzy was a bear—and that Fuzzy Wuzzy had no hair, and therefore wasn’t fuzzy, was he?—but that’s not true: Fuzzy Wuzzy was not only not a bear, he was a salamander, but he also had more fur than a whole pack of skunkettes at a furry convention. Yiff, yiff, yiff!

“I’ve got it!” I shouted into the telepoon Friday morning when Norb’s deceptionist called me and asked me when I’d be returning to work. “Burns as Goa’uld! Doesn’t it just make so much sense?” I then hung up. She didn’t try to call again. The remainder of the day proved uneventful… quite boring, in fact. I decided I would liven things up by late afternoon, though, or try dying.

Saturday morning stumbled up to my door and introduced itself in all its saturnine horror. But I didn’t care; instead I snickered with juvenile glee as I peered out my window and saw that Bouillabaisse Boulevard, for several hundred yards in each direction, was still entombed in pink, gelatinous potted meat product. 24.1875 tons of pink, gelatinous potted meat product, to be exact! Several cars had been abandoned along the side of the road where they had become hopelessly stuck. Corpses of man and beast floated in puddles of yellowish grease byproduct. Red, white, and blue bunting sprouted everywhere. It was horrible.

Haha! Things livened up indeed! Not since that big coleslawing accident over on Farnsworth Street three months ago had things been this livened up! I cackled. I roared. I clucked. I guffooned. I sang the national anthem. I called the spam-canning plant and gave them my two weeks’ notice. I had… a grand ol’ time.

Settling into my computering chair today, I picked up my computer moose and began clicking madly at every icon on the screen, not unlike a moose injected with a near-lethal dose of Viagra at the zenith of moosey rutting season. Amazingly, this frenetic tactic actually worked; within three short hours (and two really long ones) I had composed this entire blargh entry. I had forgotten to recount that incident on Tuesday involving Teddy Ruxpin, a clutch of chipmunks, and a bottle of aftershave, but I’ll save that for another week. Goodnight, you salivating crotch-salamanders of damnation!